Persephone In The Underworld
by Persephone Fallen
Summary: Those who have lost everything fear nothing but themselves. Rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

Fire… it was everywhere. Oh god the smoke was choking her. She would die in here, she knew it.

And she would welcome that death she thought for one delirious moment.

How glorious it would be to die consumed by this beauty. By this rage. She closed her eyes.

A rough hand on her shoulders brought her back premature into the world of the living.

"Christine!" Raul screamed frantically in her face, his mouth and nose obscured by the damp white rag that had been his shirt. She had fallen suddenly beside him and for anxious moments he thought her gone. The spectacle of her momentarily unconscious body lying sprawled with what looked like the most peaceful smile he had seen from her in months had shocked him.

But no she was not dead. Not his Christine.

Thank God, they would make it, they would make it, they would make it. He had not descended the depths of Hell for naught.

She startled into reality at the shock of white silk plastered on his face, so much like a mask, a mask from another time. It was spattered in blood…

No… not another time, she mused to herself, mere moments, but an eternity nonetheless.

Allowing Raul to haul her too her feet, they locked hands and ran through the darkness and fire into mere uncertainty.


	2. Chapter 2

They had arrived by furiously whipped horseback at the sprawling de Chagny estate just as the first light of dawn had begun to streak the black sky with gold and crimson.

The entirety of the household staff was crowded in the residence, still awake. They had heard news of the catastrophe at the opera house and feared their masters' dead or seriously injured. A collective audible gasp was heard as the battered remains of the lovers entered the foyer.

Truly, they had not been expected alive by anyone.

The death of Philippe, and Raoul, as the heir to his title, would mean unrest amongst the relations as they each clamored for their share of the vast fortune. Not to mention the confusion surrounding the rightful heir to the title of "Viscount" if the last males of the blood line were suddenly dead. Unfortunately the untimely death of the first Philippe de Chagny and his wife, Claudia, had not settled the long standing blood feuds brimming underneath the de Chagny's veneer of respectability. Such things were common practice of course, especially amongst the haute ton, and no one had assumed that the brothers could be dead before they produced any male heirs of their own.

Philippe though was apparently still missing. And if he were not with Raoul and Christine, the nameless opera singer the Master romanced, who was currently draped in his arms like a straw doll, where exactly was the Viscount? And if he had in fact not survived this night-of-all-nights, the new Viscount then currently stood before them.

Marie, the oldest member of the staff had been with the family since her birth fifty-three years ago. She was the last in a line of faithful servants which had included her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother who had been a slave of murky origin and no known country, bought and sold on the streets. For Marie, this was her home and family, the de Chagny children had been like her own, and gentle, kind Raoul had always been her dear old heart's favourite. Philippe much too rowdy and spoiled for her tastes. Now her dear boy limped before her, shirtless and broken, blood staining his porcelain skin.

She cried aloud, running to the young man. He carried the limp, semi-conscious form of Christine Daee in his weak arms. The girl was shivering like a leaf, her teeth chattering. In her delirium she moaned and ranted in a foreign tongue like one possessed. Most frightening of all was that her eyes stood stunned wide open as if she had seen an apparition not of this world and the sight had shocked her to lunacy.

"Look to her first" Raoul managed between panting breaths. "Look to her first, Marie!"

"Alfonso! The girl. Immediately!" She cried out authoritatively, her wits recovered, standing once more as the matron of the estate servants.

"Derrick! Fetch the doctor. Go! Ride as if the Devil were on your heels boy."

Christine began to scream, bloodcurdling screams of one who had clawed onto the edge of life and was shocked by what they found. Rolling her head back and forth, she gnashed her teeth like a rabid dog and continued her bizarre ravings as two servants strove desperately to subdue her flailing limbs lest they broke free and did harm to her person.

The household sprang to action immediately.

Shocked by the display and confusion, Raoul finally succumbed to his bodily trapping and allowed a sweet black release to cloud his senses as he fell into the arms of his dear maid and friend.

* * *

"So I am to have it all then? Am I?" 

Propping himself wearily up onto his elbows, he carefully schooled his face into an impassive aristocratic glance despite the desperate aches and pains ripping through his bandaged arm and bruised limbs.

He was not in the mood for this today.

"Title? Lands? This estate and the others?"

"Yes Monsieur." Mr. Whittaker managed nervously.

"My bloodthirsty relations aren't clamoring to your offices with some false claim or another now?"

"Uh, no. Monsieur Viscount."

British Whitaker was twice Raoul's age, yet now he trembled before the youthful aristocrat who in one fell swoop had become one of the richest men in France at the tender age of two and twenty.

Raoul glanced down at the documents before him and silently signed his name, grateful for the solitude as Whitaker finally left his bedroom chambers.

It had been a mere three days since his and Christine's frantic escape from Hell itself. Today he awoke to the news that Philippe, his only brother, had been found dead outside the Opera's burnt stone skeleton. His neck was broken, probably whilst trying to escape the fire and confusion.

He narrowed his eyes in rage. "Probably."

It would not surprise him if that pitiful monster had……No… It would not surprise him one bit.

He banished the thought from his mind. It was a futile struggle. And alas, he would not even be granted a proper period of mourning for poor Philippe for there was much to do now. Much that the younger brother was not prepared for. As lads they had never been close, and Philippe's recent conduct towards Christine had driven a further rift.

Raoul bitterly remembered their last spoken words.

"You will not marry this nameless slattern Raoul. You are a de Chagny. Father would have forbidden it, and now, as I act in his stead, I forbid it as well."

Philippe had spoken coldly. No emotion in the words, just contempt.

"_Watch your tongue brother. You lack the grace and magnanimity of father, so don't dare presume anything in his "stead", save for that worthless title you hold."_

Raoul had matched his contempt. Syllable for syllable. Words aimed at his brother's heart to tear and damage but still that impeccable composure had held fast.

"_Raoul, you are young and brash. Far too young and foolish to even begin to consider marriage! Make love to the girl brother, have your fun, but there it ends! If you insist on disobeying my word you will suffer the consequences, I warn you!"_

"_You dare threaten to disinherit me?" _Damn Philippe, he always, always got the best of him.

"_No brother. But all ties between you and I will be severed forever. Your entire family and all of Paris will follow suit. Is this girl-child you romance worth the price of your blood and honour? Is she brother? _

_I suggest you choose your words wisely and when the hot blood of lust between your thighs has cooled some measure! This is the last I will speak of this." _

With that Philippe had stood, turned around, and walked coolly out of the parlour as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary.

They had ceased to speak after that, barely seeing one another other in the vast estate, each careful to keep out of the other's path.

He closed his eyes against the painful memory as a tidal wave of guilt washed over him.

Philippe had been a good man despite a somewhat stern countenance. He merely had too many worries on a mind already prone to severe anxiousness.

Raoul had stalked off that evening to Christine and on bended knee proposed to her. His love and honour for her made slightly bitter by the salt of his brother's coldness. And she had said yes, gently, with her eyes lowered and sweet tears in her beautiful eyes. Oh how he loved her. She would never know of Philippe's contempt for her and Raoul knew he would have done anything for her. Betray family, friends, and country to keep that smile on her face.

Now she slept in the adjacent room still troubled by tumultuous dreams that frightened Raoul to the core. He knew naught what she dreamt of, but whatever memories currently plagued her mind, they were torturing both her and him. What had happened to her in those caves before his arrival?

And on stage? Why had she ripped that monster's mask off? That was not the original plan. The police were to simply swoop in and surround him when he made his eventual appearance. It made no sense.

A mixture of jealousy and sadness flooded his veins as he remembered that fateful performance. The look on her face had been….God he didn't wish to think on it any further. It would be burned into his mind forever as it was, he knew this fully well, yet he also knew that he would never have the heart to bring it up to her. The answers frightened him.

And now? Now she was to become the bride of a viscount barely past his infancy.

A sharp rapping on the doors interrupted his gloomy musings.

Marie entered with the aging Dr. Pierre Kenneth behind her. "Raoul my dear boy!"

Raoul smiled, genuinely glad to see the man who had brought him into this world and tended to him faithfully and as a friend ever since.

"Pierre how fares Christine?" he inquired anxiously.

"I'm afraid Mme. Daee's suffered a great shock. It was a brain fever that she narrowly pulled through…"

He paused. Sighing at the look of distress on the youths face.

"Don't get yourself worked up Raoul. You have your own recovery to consider at the moment as well. This is not a matter of life and death. Mme. Daae is young and hardy, she will recover fully but…"

"Yes?" Raoul prompted, impatient.

"I do not know exactly what either you or the young Mademoiselle went through, and I will not pry. She will not speak of it. She fully skirts the issue in fact, with smiles, and idle conversation. I suggest that you do not bring it up to her either unless she wishes to speak of it first. You must take care not to let the girl get overly excited or vexed over any grievances that can be avoided. This ordeal has left her altered and she may regress if upset needlessly. I've bled her and she lays sleeping peacefully now, but when she awakes, her former strength must be recovered with good food and good rest. She is far too thin and frail."

"I have strength enough for both of us, my good doctor." He stated with the bold confidence of youth.

"Christine is under _my_ protection, now, and _forever_."


	3. Chapter 3

_If you've read Wuthering Heights (which you should by the way) the conversation between Giry and Christine might seem familiar, no infrigement is intended but I can't get the Erik/Heathcliffe similarities outta mind. Enjoy. _

* * *

"Raoul, please. This is getting quite ridiculous. I'm hardly an invalid now am I?"

Christine eyed the proffered spoon and its' heaping contents with a grimace. Groaning at the beseeching look he threw her way; she obligingly opened her mouth and downed the contents, scowling at the thick blandness of the concoction as it unwillingly slid down her throat.

Looking at his face again, she could not help but laugh at the prim-mouthed expression he wore.

"Darling…" he sighed wearily at her petulant pouting. "We go over the same territory time and time again. Dr. Kenneth says you must, and frown though you may, he is the best physician in all of Paris."

Raoul smiled inwardly as Christine rolled her eyes, accepting yet another spoonful of stew nonetheless. Enjoying, ever so slightly, her reluctant submission to his administrations, he bowed his head in mock-shame, sighing with deep exaggeration.

"And just look at how I debase myself." He continued sorrowfully. "A Viscount reduced to a mere wet-nurse!"

Christine laughed gaily at his antics. "Pretty you may be my darling, but if I may venture to say it aloud, you'd make an ugly woman regardless!"

"Oh but it is indeed so." He continued with the same seriousness, though the faintest glimmer of a smile twitched the corner of his lips. "The servants are all a-gossip, and Paris Herself laughs at how absurdly and unabashedly I worship a disobedient shrew!"

Casting the offending bowl aside, he finally succumbed to peals of laughter as Christine beat him enthusiastically with a rather firm cushion.

"And all of Paris must then know how my husband-to-be abuses me mercilessly with copious amounts of beef stew!" She laughed at his appearance, hair disheveled from her ministrations with the cushion. "Tell me dear, endless weeks of this awful fare, and has the kitchen seen fit to use a fresh cow-carcass at the very least!"

She whined pathetically but to no avail, as he yet again picked up the accursed bowl.

"Stew and bread and stew and yet again, stew! Stew all the time. Stew everywhere! Breakfast, lunch, dinner 'tis stew all the same! I dream of stew…"

Christine smiled broadly under the hand that Raoul clamped over her mouth. Letting his hand slack at her silence, he gently caressed her lips and cheek. A look of wonder overcame his features as he gazed at the beauty that had obsessed him as a boy so long, even after they had parted ways. It had captured him again as a man and he was fair certain that his Christine was no ordinary mortal woman. Did other men love as such?

"We must be mindful my love." He murmured, planting a shivering kiss on her alabaster cheek. "And besides." He continued slowly, his face serious one more. "I merely seek to have the plumpest bride in all of France by my side!" Laughing happily at her outraged cry, he once again gave himself to the assailing cushion.

Catching her arms, she offered no resistance, but eagerly leaned forward to meet his mouth in a deep kiss. If only they could remain forever thus, locked in each other's arms, a moment of rare and pure happiness for once not tainted by bitterness or memories he desperately sought to evade. It had been six weeks since that fateful flight from Hell. She had suffered more then he could ever truly begin to decipher. Waking from her unconsciousness, fresh off the terrifying brain fever that would have surely claimed a weaker woman, Christine had been morose and withdrawn for weeks. She had tried to cover that up under her smiles and chatter but Raoul could see in her eyes that she did it as a show for him. His heart had ached at the pain he could not cease, and was powerless against.

But then, her façade had stripped away, her smiles had become genuine and her eyes sparkled with all the freshness of youth once again. He answered the return of her sunshine with all the force of love his soul contained. She still had not spoken aught of what she had endured, but he was heedful of Kenneth's words and would not pry. In truth, he did not wish her to speak of it. If some miracle of God could erase clean her mind of all the memories of pain she harboured within her heart, he willed selfishly that it would be done so and replaced with him instead. He had love and life enough for both of them his naïve heart believed; enough to tide them through whatever darkness might attempt assault.

"Well now, if you two insist on carrying on like this I shall have to appoint a much better chaperone then mother here."

Meg skipped gleefully inside, fresher then the basket teeming with roses she carried. Her mother entered behind in her usual dignified straight-backed manner, smiling nonetheless at her daughter's teasing jests.

"I'm afraid we've robbed your rose gardens fair clean out of bloom."

"My gentle lady, they are yours for the taking!" Raoul exclaimed. "Christine insists on naught but pure-white lily's for our wedding day."

"Ah yes but those will look lovely in here." Christine mused, standing to divest Meg of her basket.

"We'll leave the thorns on though, I've always thought a rose without thorns is bereft of all its beauty."

Meg started at her strange wistful tone, choosing to bite her tongue at the odd comment. Mother and Raoul stood off engrossed in their talk of Isabella, Raoul's youngest sister, scant married a year to a much older Marquise who was at present ailing rapidly. They expected the rich bastard dead any day now. Even her serious mother was not immune to gossip it seemed.

Christine was rubbing a pink petal between her fingers. "It feels just like flesh Meg."

She shivered, dropping the flower, impervious to Meg's curious stare.

Resuming her cheery nature as fast at she had dropped it, Christine laughed and clapped her hands like an excited child, grabbing Meg and leading her to a seat. "We have much yet to plan, Oh Meg! In a mere month I shall be a bride and _nothing_ is prepared! "

Meg laughed, relishing in her friend's obvious joy and forgetting about her odd statement.

"Yes!" She said. "We must prepare for the most glorious bride the haute ton have ever lain their beady, over-bred eyes on!" Smiling mischievously at Raoul, she added "Excepting you, of course, My _Lord_ Viscount!"

Mme. Giry frowned at the girl's insolence but Raoul merely laughed good-naturedly and strode across the room to rumple Meg's hair as she protested to no avail.

The nuptials were a month away and the two girls, ever thick as clotted cream, spent countless idle hours chattering, planning, and scheming the whole affair. Raoul with all his tender heart insisted that Christine have the best of everything. No expense was spared and the entire city buzzed with intrigue and speculation over the nameless opera singer who the new Viscount de Chagny had chosen as his intended.

Raoul had insisted that Mme. Giry and Meg stay at the estate, assaying the stoic woman's protests with reason after reason: Christine would need the help and company of familiar faces, the house was vast and spacious with plenty room for thirty more guests comfortably. On and on he went. In truth, Mme. Giry knew that Raoul felt the burden of guilt over the fire that had displaced hers and many more hundreds of lives less fortunate. It had been his plan after all that had incurred the ghost's wrath. Secretly Mme. Giry thought that it had been Christine's fateful and disturbing decision to unmask him that had caused the disaster but she held her tongue on that matter from all of them whilst her ever-watchful eyes kept everything in her sight.

Truth be told, she harboured immense guilt herself; and if Raoul was to be blamed in any small part of the disaster, then so too was she as much, and even more so.

Raoul's generosity had gone overboard where she and Meg were concerned. He had provided them with the finest guest-rooms and complete wardrobes until she had threatened to leave regardless of his protests if his needless spending on their persons didn't stop. If it were not for Meg's welfare, she would not have stayed at all. Charity was not a word in her vocabulary and to embrace it now would do no good. No, she would stay until after Christine was settled in but then it would be time to forge ahead anew. If she knew nothing else, it was self-perseverance.

She stared now at the three youth in front of her, chatting and smiling, Raoul and Christine still in mourning garb for Philippe, though their behavior certainly did not reflect the somber thread save for when Isabella visited, the only de Chagny it seemed who harboured any true fondness for the dead Viscount.

Christine had recovered fast. Too fast.

It seemed to Mme. Giry that the girl had no heart to be in such high spirits so soon. She seemed unnatural of late, though Raoul for obvious reasons, chose to mark her speedy recovery as a miracle of her strength and his love.

Could the girl have forgotten her former friend and mentor so fast?

She had spoken not a single word of him. Not a one! And it was more then passing strange that her spirits could be so high.

Agnes Rose Giry had lived long enough on this wide world; and though she had seen little of it's splendor, cloistered as she had been since childhood at the opera house, she understood people. She had always had the ability to see past the surface façade of an individual to their core, to their secret intentions. Perhaps twice she had failed in this; the first time resulted in her beloved daughter. As for the other…well she had blinded herself deliberately to that one and her guilt was the punishment for her failed sight. A mediocre penance indeed, all things considered, she had been one of the few fortunate ones. Would that she understood then what she did now.

She remembered with a barely suppressed shiver a night not too long past. It was nigh Midnight and she had been on her way to her modest quarters, her legs fatigued, and a pounding headache that would not cease. Practice had been long and tedious and now she wanted nothing more then a good night's rest before the new day dawned with yet more arduous tasks.

"Madame?"

Christine had stepped out of the shadows in front of her. Her eyes were wide and red, she had been crying. Her narrow shoulders trembling violently. She clutched a candle dripping wax steadily on her hand and yet seemed ignorant of any pain.

"Child, what has happened?" She inquired alarmed, startled by her sudden apparition.

"Please, let us go to your quarters. Quickly!" Christine looked around her, her eyes seeking every corner, terrified of what may be lurking. Rightfully so Agnes had thought grimly, steeling herself against whatever new horror may have presented itself to make the child so fearful. She steered Christine into her rooms, bolting the door behind her.

Refusing a seat, Christine had paced back and forth in the narrow space, unnerving her.

"Child." She had stated quietly. "We are safe in here, and you are safe with me. There is nothing so frightening in this world that you cannot divest to me"

With that said, she set the teapot to reheat, busying herself while Christine continued to pace with averted eyes. She was breathing heavily, crying anew. She knew enough to give the girl her due space. She would speak when she was ready.

Refusing Mme. Giry's offered cup of tea, Christine finally flung herself on a threadbare settee adjacent to the fireplace, and wringing her hands, stared straight ahead into emptiness. After some long minutes, her crying abated as well.

Still unnerved by her display, Agnes seated herself in the chair opposite the fire, and waited.

"Madam?" Christine spoke finally, breaking the tense silence.

"Do you never dream queer dreams?"

Unprepared for the question, Agnes had paused before slowly answering, "Yes. Yes I have Christine. Quite often in fact.

"And so have I!" Christine retorted, her red eyes blazing with a passion whose source she could not guess. Standing one more, she resumed her restless pacing.

"Always! Always since I was but a child have the strangest images danced through my mind while I sleep. Like a puzzle truly, but a puzzle I never find the key too! Before father died I dreamed of his room, empty…. his bed empty. I searched and searched…" She trailed off.

"Last night I dreamt that I had died. I was dead…. And I could see my corpse in its coffin. It did not frighten me Madame, I looked so peaceful lying there without a care or sorrow in the world. But then the expression on my face slowly changed into a look of utter despair and this, _this_ did frighten me! And I thought to myself how odd to wear such a countenance in death. Surely it is blasphemous! Surely I had not died in peace after all and some shadow of discontent harboured within me still that my spirit did not feel or could not remember!

Advancing upon Mme. Giry, she flung herself to her knees at the dear older woman's feet.

"Oh but that is not the worst of it! Not half so bad as what continued…" She trembled violently now, her head in Mme. Giry's lap.

"Do you believe Madam that dreams can hearken the future?" She lifted her face up.

Mme. Giry was watching her with growing concern. This was about more then a mere nightmare that much was for certain. She pondered her words carefully before responding.

"I do not know for certain, Christine." She said finally. "Mayhap my dear that is not for us to know." She sighed. "Dreams, Christine can be a reflection of life though, a reflection of thoughts, feelings, and… desires. Sometimes the things that worry us most in the waking world can be manifested to our souls when we slumber. This I can attest to with some measure of certainty" She paused again, uncertain of how to continue.

"The Angels came for me Madame. They lifted my spirit up and away, far away, as I watched the expression of despair on my mortal body worsen…. I was in Heaven Madame, but I knew deep down that it was wrong and the deepest panic I ever have felt filled me 'till I was brimming with misery. I flung myself down upon the Angel's feet, begging and weeping that I may return and they grew so angry at my disobedience that they flung me back down – past sky, past earth – into the deepest bowels of Hell where I woke sobbing for joy for I was home!"

At that exclamation, she seemed to have exhausted all her energy, and throwing her head back into Mme. Giry's lap, she merely lay thus, shuddering deeply as if from a deep chill though the fire blazed cheerfully.

She got up again.

"Tonight Raoul asked me to marry him. Quick, tell me which answer I should have given him!"

Mme. Giry stared at the girl, not comprehending her ravings and quite put off by them. She had never seen her behave like this before and it chilled her to the very marrow of her bones.

"Christine?" She faltered. "Well, which answer did you give him?"

At this Christine's tears had begun afresh. "I said yes! Tell me if this is right!" She dropped to her knees again before Mme. Giry, desperate pleading in her eyes.

"Well you have given him your answer then child! It is not for me to say if it was right or wrong, what is the matter with you Christine? Never have I seen you act as such! You have said yes, therefore it is the right answer, you are a wicked and unprincipled girl to toy with him thus if you do not mean to love him!"

"I know!" She sobbed. "I know! And I'm going to Hell for it I know that. What is wrong with me Madame! Oh dear God I wish I knew how to save myself for once! _He _came to me tonight Madame…I screamed at my mirror for him to appear, I thought to break it with a fire poker if he refused, but he came. He took me… " She averted her eyes but Agnes could see the guilt plainly written on them

"And when I returned Raoul was waiting, and he dropped to his knees, hugging my body to himself…my body that still smelled like _him _and he asked me to be his wife. I said yes! I said yes! I wanted to say yes!"

Agnes did not need to ask what had transpired. It all made sense to her now and her fear only grew as did the throbbing at her temples. But Christine was not finished.

"I chose Hell over my father Madame, over Heaven and the Glory of God Himself. But now I choose Heaven over that Hell which is more self-made then ever you or _he_ will know. I know the answer to my salvation now and I seek to find it wholly."

"And in marrying Raoul you see your salvation Christine?" She gently placed her hand on Christine's cheek. "Is this not a cruelty to him?"

"I love him Madame. Truly I do, please do not mistake my intentions. Ever have you stood by my side. The only mother I've ever known. Tell me, do I not deserve happiness and peace and family? You had that before it was cruelly snatched away from you."

If only you knew the truth in that she thought silently to herself.

"Yes my child, you deserve every happiness, I only worry that you claim it at the misery of others, including yours."

The night had ended with Christine going back to her room, somewhat subdued, though she doubted if the girl had gotten any sleep that night, or if her dreams had been kept at bay with her decision. She doubted it very much indeed. Fate was set into motion though and the events that happened after she had never guessed they would go so far or be so dire. Christine had been like a daughter to her but after night the two had scarcely spoken. Christine had avoided her and she had thoughtlessly assumed it was because she was embarrassed at her behaviour. In fact the girl to all outward appearances had been serene and happy. In hindsight she knew it to be an act, which is why, looking at her now smiling and laughing with Meg and Raoul she knew something was amiss. Guilt flooded her, for she knew that she was yet again powerless to help her.

Christine looked up, catching Mme. Giry's eye, a smile on her face though it did not reach her eyes. She quickly looked away again.

Yes, Agnes thought grimly. Something most certainly was amiss and her heart constricted painfully that those she loved the most were in so much pain and that she could do naught but wait and see what hand fate would dole out this time.


	4. Chapter 4

Today Christine Daee, nameless opera singer died.

Christine de Chagny, Viscountess; replaced her and no one mourned the loss, not even Christine.

Amidst a garden of white calla lilies and some one hundred or so guests who made up some of the richest families in France, Christine had spoken the words that now bound her for life to her childhood sweetheart. _I do_. Two simple words. I do. Barely even words at that, syllables, sounds. It's astounding how the simplest of words can have the direst of consequences. _Yes. No_. The weight of lives and nations rested on mere linguistics. It was laughable, really.

_Yes_…_Maybe_. The delicious pause before the sword fell, before the decision was final. Bought and sold.

It was her wedding night and Raoul had come to claim his hard-won prize.

Breathlessly breaking their kiss, Christine gazed at the face whose expression held that of pure contentment and love. Love for her. It broke her heart to think she had caused him pain time and time again and yet still he had never wavered in his devotion. She knew he never would waver so long as breath held fast in his body and it was a discomforting thought that she might never measure up to it herself.

Stubbornly she fought her mind that at every moment threatened to destroy the equilibrium she had so harrowingly carved out for herself in the weeks past. She could feel the headache now becoming increasingly familiar, threaten somewhere behind her eyes and still she fought against the black torrent that raged somewhere inside from making it's way to the surface.

A man's body hung in the air before her, his legs flailing, disturbingly comical and macabre.

Raoul's face filled with helplessness and despair.

Deceit upon deceit.

Lies upon lies.

Yes Christine. Remember, r_emember_.

She felt the torrent subside back to the darkness that bred it. The headache remained. She threw herself into his arms again, willing an end to her self-made torture.

_There will be no blood on the sheets Christine._

She hung onto Raoul with all the might her canary bones allowed. He stepped back from her, surprise and wonder on his face. "Christine…" He whispered her name reverently, like a prayer.

_You pray to a false idol my love._

His hands trembled as they undid the stays of her corset. Layer after layer, she shed her clothes off like a snake sheds it's skin. Even vipers left innocent white layers of silk in their path. His eyes never left hers and she threw all her awareness into that gaze, fierce and loyal, until she felt nothing else, saw nothing else. Reality blurred around the edges of those eyes.

But those other eyes? They had burned, yes… burned through her, leaving no trace of life behind. Those other hands had torn at her clothes, at her flesh. They had torn right through her.

_You are still screaming at the same mirror Christine. You always will._

_No. Please God no…_

It was a futile last attempt.

Her body awash at Raoul's caresses sought the memory of another's touch. It awakened in her what she had thought buried. She was both horrified and fascinated by her body's betrayal.

Raoul stepped back from her, staring at her nakedness, shedding his own clothes. He cupped her face in his hands, trembling still.

"My love, I've waited so long to touch you like this. Are you scared Christine?" He whispered it gently.

"No…Yes. I'm not sure."

Maybe. 

_Small words indeed. But enough to tear asunder entire nations. Enough to tear apart her heart and mind. _

"I love you Raoul, I love you so much."

He lifted her in his arms, carrying her to their marriage-bed. She too trembled now.

Maybe... 

_His_ shirt had been torn apart by her own wretched hands, pants unbuckled. She had reveled gloriously in her own wanton lust, free at last from its narrow confines. Her body had arched into his, needing more, wanting some unattainable thing she had no words for. Her breasts strained above a half-undone corset and his mouth and tongue, and oh God his teeth, worked their way towards her nipples. He had grasped her desperately, his hands plunging between her legs, instinctively seeking her pulsing wetness. She gasped as his calloused fingers roughly found their target, breaking her delicate barrier, that place none but her had ever touched before. Any remaining reserve had shattered as she squirmed against him, desperate and wild.

Raoul pressed his mouth to her skin, trailing gentle kisses along her body's length, barely touching her. His tongue darted out between his lips tasting her skin, hot and wet against her cold flesh. He made his way lower, parting her nether-lips.

_He_ had thrown her violently against his bed, shedding the last of their garments that lay tangled and strewn on the ground. Propping himself up on his hands above her he had stared savagely into her eyes, a mixture of hatred and love imprinted on his features. It both excited and repulsed her and she met his ferocious stare with the same intensity, both refusing to break in the unspoken challenge.

Raoul's tongue continued to probe her innermost parts, urging her body towards release. She tangled her hands in his hair, willing it, needing it.

_His_ hand had knotted itself in her hair, wrenching her head backwards against the pillow as his lips had ravaged hers. His hand still achingly probed her embarrassing wetness and she arched her back, her body instinctively seeking his sex. She moaned into his mouth when she felt the tip, hot and hard against her thigh. He took her bottom lip between his teeth, pressing his body harder against hers, pressing his phallus against her skin. She wanted to die from the exquisite torture and for the first time in her life she knew how pleasure and pain could be one and the same. Her hands were like claws on his shoulders, wanting to hurt him, to mark him.

Raoul entered her slowly, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort in her ear. He moved above her, clasping his hands with hers and she tightened her legs around his back, pressing him closer. It still hurt she thought with wonder, a delicious prick of pain, as her body stretched to accommodate his.

_He_ had sheathed himself inside her in one hard plunge, tearing her apart; the pain had blossomed in her body like a storm. She screamed and clutched his damp body closer as he had rocked mercilessly into her without pause or rest, punishing her for her innocence. Punishing himself for loving her. He had wrenched her head back against the pillow again.

"Your boy? Does he touch you like this?" 

"_Erik…" _How could she respond to his furious questions when her mind had turned to liquid.

"_Answer me goddamn you Christine! Does he? Do you behave so wantonly with him inside you? Do you moan like a whore with his hands on your flesh? Do you!"_

Her mouth longed to shape the words, they were on the tip of her tongue but she could only shut her eyes against the hot tears that trailed down her face. She screamed his name instead and he slammed into her one last time before he released himself inside her, spilling his hot seed.

Raoul clutched her tightly, shuddering violently as he came.

Enveloping her in his embrace he caressed her hair.

"Are you alright my love? Did I hurt you?" He peered anxiously at her face.

When had her tears begun to flow?

"No, no." She smiled reassuringly at him, tucking her head on his shoulder.

_Either way you choose, you cannot win. _

_You will not win, Christine._

"It only hurt a bit."


	5. Chapter 5

"What's your name child?" The voice was warm, masculine, welcoming. His eyes sleepy and gentle.

"Janelle." The young girl replied, stuttering.

Erik smiled, looking at the child in front of him. What was she, Sixteen? Seventeen? It didn't matter. The look on her face made him ill. So much innocence, so much promise. She would be very beautiful when she was older. A real heart breaker.

Anyone looking at the expression currently frozen on his face would assume he was in a good mood. Fortunately, most people had never seen that expression, and those that did, it were generally their last.

Reaching a hand towards the trembling girl's face, he gently caressed it. Keeping the same expression, he swung the same hand around and slapped her with alarming strength. She sprawled against the wooden floor, a tiny fist held up to her red cheek, too shocked to cry at first until she found her voice and began silently weeping.

Eric still smiled. "Your name is Christine." He said softly and paused.

"What's your name?"

"C-Christine." The girl answered, weeping openly, not meeting the strangers' eyes.

"Stop crying Christine." He instructed, a killing edge in his soft voice. "You don't want daddy angry now do you?"

"N-No."

"No….?"

"No…Sir."

"That's my good girl. Take off your dress Christine."


	6. Chapter 6

Erik stumbled blindly into the dank alleyway, fumbling for a wall, for anything solid to hang on too. Self-loathing filled him as he struggled to keep the contents of his stomach from spewing out. The scent and sight of rotting garbage and piss overwhelmed his senses as he gave into the urge and retched, watching with revulsion as his liquids mingled with those already staining the dirty concrete. He forced his eyes shut, forced his breathing into regular intervals as he tried to banish from his thoughts the memories of the child he had just savagely broken apart in the squalid whorehouse behind him. Broken apart and enjoyed. Her body would heal fast enough that much he could ascertain with certainty, Hell, worse had been done to him – and he had done worse, much worse, but never had he reveled in it before. Never had he enjoyed such utter and complete domination over another human being. He recalled vividly her quite sobs which undoubtedly were still continuing in the rank little room upstairs. He had punished her for his own monstrosities and for _hers_, for _her_ damnable memory, for her scent that still permeated his skin and mind, but mostly he had punished the child for not actually being _her_.

He had spent the last three months trapped in a living nightmare of his own doing. Aware of the price still hanging over his head he had been unable to safely withdraw most of the money from his vast and hefty bank accounts. The ravaged side of his face no longer bore the elegant white mask, but bandages, as if to hide a recent injury not an inherited one. His elegant evening attire now undoubtedly belonged to whatever mob had invaded his underground home, if they had not merely torn the expensive silks apart in blood frenzy. Ironically, his Don Juan costume still clothed his weary body, tattered and torn though freshly laundered – his one concession to vanity. It was some sick twist of the mind that made him hold on to that one physical remembrance. He realized he looked like any other wretched street rat scurrying around Paris looking for a hole to die in. They were certainly numerous in the city, begging and stealing whatever sustenance and shelter they could. No one would think to look for the legendary and feared Opera Ghost crawling amongst their ilk, or so he hoped. A finely tuned survival instinct still made him weary of the sword that would forever hang over his head. The money he had been able to bring would last for quite some time on these streets. He stayed in the seediest inns and boarding houses he could find, eating little when he remembered to eat at all. But he had been loathe to find that punishing his body physically still did nothing to quench the ferocious sexual appetites that had been awakened in him by _her_.

Today was _her_ wedding day. Tonight was _her_ wedding night. Tonight his blood had cried for blood and he had finally buried the fear and humiliation that been building inside of him into the body of an innocent virgin. Oh, it had been glorious. Even his current disgust at his actions didn't take away from the pleasure he had felt as he had brutally plunged inside her tight body and stripped her forever of her innocence. Just as he had done to _her_. But _she_ had wanted it just as savagely as he had. _She_ had screamed for him. He closed his eyes shut as another wave of nausea threatened to bring him to his knees.

He had not wanted to hurt the child, his intention had been a simple fuck, a futile attempt to calm his frayed nerves; but the first touch of her skin had brought memories to a surface boil and they had spilled out in a vicious torrent of pain until Christine's face swimming in front of him had unleashed a cruelty he rarely allowed seen. He had paid dearly with coin for that virgin privilege and the result know lay upstairs, no doubt sleepless and traumatized, hushed to sleep in the arms of the whorehouse mistress whose eyes had gleamed with greed when he put the sack of coins in her fat palm. She had stared at him with open disgust until she counted the money, offering him any girl in the house but no; they had not been good enough. They had not been pure. He had coldly informed her that he would not squabble over another dog's scraps and then his eyes had fixed on a slight form, almost concealed in the kitchen that had sent a jolt right into his groin. She had reminded him of _her_, same hair, same eyes. Same lithe and fragile body. Lust had surged through him like potent wine. It was the mistress's own daughter. Her eyes had turned cold with rage, but in the end money won out like it always would. Hadn't his own whore mother sold him?

The woman had gladly sold her virgin daughter to a monster. It should have been Christine under him begging for mercy, begging for release. His heart contracted painfully. Damn her, damn her to Hell and beyond. Damn her for going on with her life with that pallid boy-child whose bed she warmed tonight.

A cruel smile mocked his sensuous lips.

Oh my dear, dear Christine. May the memory of my body in yours be forever imprinted on your mind. If I must live with half my soul in the grave, grieving forever for your shadow then may your mind torture itself alive with guilt that it was I who claimed your flesh first. If you live to be a hundred with your mewling milk-blooded aristocrat, you will still cavort with demons in your dreams.


End file.
